virtue, that had brought them into this sad
strait, and there seemed to be no way out
for any of them. The only hope was that,
when once married, duty, pride, habit, and
the sweetness of Paul's own nature, would
make Magdalen forget his weakness, and
reconcile her to her lot. She was good; she
was brave; and, though under too little
control at this moment, yet this was only a passing
fever. She would grow calmer and stronger
by-and-by. Thus Horace reasoned and
tried to say peace! peace! where there was
no peace, and to make words and shadows
take the place of realities. He looked at the
names of the contracting parties joined
together in the rigid legal fashion, till
something blinded his eyes, and he could see no
more.

However, he finished his task, and took it
down to Oakfield. Mr. Slade read over the
settlements; but some alterations were
required. Asking to be alone to make them,
he retired to the library which overlooked
the garden. He was so agitated that he
walked feverishly about the room, leaning
against the open window, looking into the
garden; and there he saw Magdalen, in the
garden alone. She too had hastened away to
the filbert- walk where she thought no one could
see her. There was such a bitter north-east
wind blowing that the birds kept close in their
nests and at the roots of the trees, and the
animals in the fields crouched under the lee of the
hedges. But Magdalen paced up and down
the long walk; every movement and gesture
betraying that a terrible strife was raging
within. She was thinking how impossible
it was to escape from the position into which
she had ignorantly placed herself. Paul
loved her with such devotion that she dared
not break off their marriage. It would
kill him. And then she would break her
own heart for remorse, feeling herself a
murderess. Passing this even, she thought
how that it would be dishonourable, because
Paul, having given up his profession as a
means of living since her father's death
—not that he had ever been able to live yet
by his profession, but that was nothing to the
purpose—had thus lost both connection and
habit. No! This fatal engagement, so
blindly entered into, must be faithfully kept.
Honour and duty sealed the bond; and her
heart—all the love that was in it—must lie
for ever, like the genii under Solomon's seals.
Large, dark, powerful genii, of immeasureable
strength—kept down by a word and a
ring. Besides, to what end give up this
marriage? If, indeed, Mr. Rutherford had
loved her—she might have found cause
to make the effort, and be free. For she
acknowledged—yes to herself, to God, to
man, if need be—that she loved him—loved
him with her whole soul. If he had loved
her—and she threw herself on the garden-
seat where her father and Paul had sat on
that hot summer's day when her fate was
sealed—if he had cared for her only half so
much as she loved him, she could have burst
these bonds,—she could—she would! But
he did not. He hated her instead—yes, hated
her bitterly, fiercely! This was easy to be
seen! He let all the world know it! His
indifference, his coldness, his harshness: all
were so many words of contempt and dislike,
painful enough for her to bear, owing him so
much as she did. If he had not been so kind
to her in that dreadful trial, she would
not have cared so much; but it was painful
to owe him her liberty, her very life, and
to know that he despised her! And
Magdalen—the cold, calm, dreamy Magdalen—
paced through the garden, wildly. The statue
had started into life. Love had touched its
lips; as in the days of old it vivified that
statue on the wide Egyptian plains.

"I cannot bear this," said Horace, aloud.
"Prudent I must be, and honourable to Paul;
but at least I am a man, and owe her something
as well."

His own heart had divined her secret, and
he ran down-stairs, out into the garden,
through the filbert-walk to where it ended
in the large horsechestnut-tree looking down
the glade, and where Magdalen was sitting in
this bitter wind, trying to reason down her
passion. Horace paused. She was thinking
almost aloud;—" I will marry—yes, soon;
and then, when habit and the knowledge
that what I have done is inevitable, have
reconciled me to my fate, I shall be more
patient with Paul, and perhaps even love
him, and be kind to him. He is very good,
and I have behaved ill, very ill, to him;
but I do not love him, I know that.
What can I do? Patience! patience!
Resignation, and that quiet strength which can
support sorrow silently, and neither
complain of it nor avenge it: this is all that life
has for me!"

She turned to go to the house, when Horace
met her. She started, and looked as if she
would have escaped him if she could.

"I came to beseech you to come into the
house," he said,

"I am going now," she answered, her eyes
on the ground. " Why did you come?"

I was afraid you would take cold sitting
out here without shawl or bonnet." Horace
was not speaking in his usual voice.

"You are very kind, but I did not know
that you knew where I was;" and Magdalen's
care-worn face was beginning to smile.

"I saw you from the window."

"Ah! and then came to me?" She looked
up, blushing.

"Yes," said Horace.

Nothing more was said, and they returned
to the house; Magdalen little dreaming of
how she had been watched from that upper
window, little thinking of the anguish that
had held company with hers, nor seeing, in
the indifferent manners of her friend, any
evidence of the feeling which a few minutes